‘He’s here at last!’ declared Antoine jovially when Philippe arrived, looking wet and dishevelled. ‘You’ve missed all the fun, mon fils. I have made the heavens open and the hail come down in the middle of this young couple’s wedding. Maybe we could tell them it is a good omen in France to have hail at your wedding, hein?’

‘Come on, you old menace,’ Philippe replied. ‘You’ve led me a merry dance today and I’ve had just about enough, OK?’

‘D’accord,’ Antoine consented merrily. ‘But let me give you a little advice.’ He indicated his snowy locks. ‘I have not earned these white hairs for nothing. It’s time you had another woman in your life, and if I were you, I’d have this one.’ He indicated Meredith. ‘She knows her cognac, for a start. And she is genereuse d’esprit, not like that other one. That is my advice. Take it or leave it.’

Philippe caught Meredith’s eye. She was struggling to keep a straight face until she saw that Philippe wasn’t laughing. His eyes were fixed on hers with an expression that was almost uncomfortable in its intensity. And there was no mistaking the message in them.

Sophie, temporarily left to manage the wedding, carried on with her effortless efficiency and six pages of notes. From the window of the salon where she had gone to indulge her small vice of a roll-up cigarette, she caught sight of Meredith with Philippe and, with her usual perspicacity, instantly guessed what was going on.

She went to seek out Jean-Christophe in the kitchen. He instantly stopped serving up and came towards her, oblivious to the reactions of the waiting staff, a melting smile illuminating his olive-dark eyes.

Sophie put out a hand to halt his clear intention to kiss her again. ‘Jean-Christophe,’ she apologized with an answering smile in her eyes, ‘I’m so sorry to disturb you – but I suspect your dad has finally told Meredith how he feels about her. Could you get the carer to come and look after your grandfather, so that Philippe can stay? I don’t think we should let this moment go!’

It was at this moment that Lucille returned to the kitchen, carrying a dozen plates piled right up her arm in that almost magical trick a good server can pull off. She stopped dead, taking in every word.

Glancing through the open terrace door, she saw Philippe and Meredith approaching together, a look of loving conspiracy passing between them.

The plates clattered to the floor with an almighty crash. Lucille turned to Jean-Christophe. ‘I am very sorry, Jean-Christophe, but I find I must return to Bordeaux for an emergency.’

‘Lucille . . .’ attempted Philippe as he entered the kitchen.

‘No – no sympathy.’

Jean-Christophe, ignoring the debris on the floor, led her away and called for a taxi.

‘I will wait at the front of the château,’ Lucille announced with dignity.